Manor hall- murder mystery- Great new format

[Maurelle]

The night is long, you’ve all talked into the early morning and the excitement of the day has leaked into the evening to find a different kind of excitement, foreign to your female sensibilities. These events lie heavily on your limbs and eyelids and you find conversation flagging. You all agree eventually, that you should depart to your separate rooms to sleep. Mysteries and murders will wait until the mornings light.
It was early enough when you woke that the birds twittered playfully outside your window, calm enough that when the same butler from the evening before knocks on the door to your communal room, you are all given a small fright. Soon enough you calm, laughing nervously at one another for such skittishness. The butler, whose name still alludes you, looks even older somehow in the fresh light of the morning. At least he seems to fit the surroundings of this archaic wing. His wrinkles seem to shift of their own accord as he speaks, his voice is low and rasping as if half of the dust in the home has settled on his lungs over the years. “Breakfast is served M’ladies in the Orchid Room”.

None of you feel particularly as if you want to eat, your heads still reeling at the thoughts of murders decades before- however, you must keep face, and one by one you return to your rooms to dress quickly, into soft day garments, cotton dresses and slips. Each of you applies the barest covering of makeup, one or two of you covering redness of the eyes- before meeting in the common room once more and nodding silently to one another before making your way down to breakfast. You eat quickly, fruit salads and nutritious cereal mixes, chatting softly to one another as you listen to the ringing of laughter from nearby tables, joy that seems stifled despite the grandeur of your surroundings and the sun shining through the shining bay windows. After the dishes have been cleared, the old butler brings each table a letter on a silver platter. The letters are sealed in wax and written in looping ink, but all read the same.

My dear guests, forgive me for not breakfasting with you this morn, however, I have arranged for you all to take a trek with the horses of the manor this morning. The stables are a half miles walk across the courtyard to the east, our Riding Instructor Master Thomas, will fetch you from this room after you have had time to change into more suitable attire. The trek will be a four hour ride over our beautiful moors, and I’m sure you will enjoy it thoroughly.
Your humble host, Lady Maurelle.

The letter secures the first in the promised string of activities that the getaway had promised, and you feel your spirits lifted by the idea of open air and countryside. You all make your way back to your rooms to change and are soon back into the Orchid Room, and are greeted by a tall, dark and rather swarthy man in riding gear, who you can only assume is Master Thomas, and he is quick to confirm such. His accent is smooth and local, clipping the t’s off of some of his words. You instantly feel a warmth towards him, though his posture and face suggest only the highest mannerisms.
After waiting for the rest of the guests to arrive, you head out of the main doors and across the gravel of the courtyard.
The walk was pleasant enough, the air smelt fresh and clean in the morning and it seems to clear the worries from your heads a little. The gravel ends soon enough and you begin to walk the short path to the stables, it is well cut but muddied and strewn here and there with a little hay. You talk to one another will mirth in your voices, and turning to scold Aly for a cheeky remark Maya catches her foot in a turn in the ground. She falls with enough force to make her cry out, and you girls crowd around her, concerned. Soon enough Master Thomas is crouching by her side, pressing cool fingers into the ankle that is already beginning to swell. “You’ll have to go back to the mansion and rest, I’m afraid” he tells Maya, a look of regret on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you back” and before you can protest, his arm is slung around her waist supporting her as she limps softly on her good ankle. “Go ahead ladies and gents, the stables are just a way up from here, I’ll be back soon enough to help you tackle the horses” his voice is soft, but stern enough and you find yourselves doing as he says, with only a few looks of concern and kind words for your friend Maya.
It’s not long before you reach the stables, they are long and constructed from old oak. Sturdy, they could have easily been there since the turn of the century. There are almost thirty resident horses, and you can hear their snorts and the soft clatter of hooves as they move about. There is also the laughter and chatter of boys nearby, the stable hands. It is a small time before Mater Thomas arrives and you girls find yourself being chatted up by a stable boy or two, you are not particularly interested but decide to use the situation to your advantage, asking them about any strange murders in the house, saying that you’ve heard roomers about haunting.
“Well, don’t know about no ghosts miss”
one local boy says, docking his cap with a sly smile and a wink of wide blue eyes under dark lashes,
“But we dun’ hear about the paintings in the house, they say some of them family were good and murdered! You hear more about the rich dyin here in Goscott than us normal folks, so don’t you be worryin your pretty little heads missus”
“Eye!” Pipes in Henry, a little blonde, dirty boy
“Only them curses you gotta worry about!” he says, backing up his claim with a wave of his hands and “whooooo!” noises.
“Now now boys!!!” comes a voice from behind you, you jump a little, but are comforted to find that it is only Master Thomas returning from the house.
“Non of that. There’s nought reason scaring our guests over nothing” he says a little darkly, giving the stable boys a stern look, and hushing any backtalk quickly by ordering them ready and bring the horses for the Trek.
“Don’t worry m’ladies” Thomas says “Your friend is well, and in the library to rest and read for the day”




Library scene.
The day was becoming an eventful one, the letter from last night continuously plaguing her mind as Maya sat within her chair, dwarfed either side my massive arches leading further down to archaic books, dusted in old age and antiquity. She sat pouting as she thought to her friends, more then likely already set off on there trek, while she sat whiling away the hours in a dark, stuffy library, her foot throbbing at every tiny movement, cursing her luck under her breathe at such mindlessness. Her gaze moved from one corner to another, trying to find some entertainment in this empty room, void of all other life. Slowly ascending to stand behind her chair, wincing at the slightest lurch, Maya hobbled over to a bookstand residing near to one of the large stain glass windows, she viewed the contents available to her. Most where of no interest to her, and others either of another language or to battered to make any sense from it.
Drawing a finger softly along the spines she abruptly stopped, glued to a book, head tiled slightly to the side Maya mumbled the name out loud;
“Witch trails – The Finagot Parish”
Taking the book firmly in her hand she pulled, encountering small resistance, returning to her seat she sat down, and studied the cover, leather bound and battered it was obviously not of this century, the letters standing out in gold emboss. Opening the book slowly Maya studied a line of photographs, all old, wrinkling at the sides, black and white people peering out from another place altogether, Stopping suddenly Maya peered ever closer to one picture, of an old building, large in stature a crowd bustling about at the foot or the stairs, servants and gents alike going about there every day lives; realisation hit her suddenly, drawing in a small breath, the picture within this book was the very same that they were residing in.

A few hours later, sat within another lavishly decorated room they conversed over today’s happenings, three of the females wearing splattered riding clothes, the other sat nursing her bruised leg, servants milling about with silver platters of steaming savouries as hushed whispers filtered back and forth over this one table.